


Left of Childhood

by BornToHunt



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Dean Winchester's Terrible Handling of Feelings, Foul Language Because Dean's Internal Monologues are Filled With Swearing, Gen, John Winchester's A+ Parenting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-01
Updated: 2017-11-01
Packaged: 2019-01-27 16:44:12
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,180
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12586236
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BornToHunt/pseuds/BornToHunt
Summary: Slight AU ending to Season 11 Episode 8, 'Just My Imagination.' At the end, when they say their goodbyes, Dean has a question for Sam's imaginary friend. It's not the question he thought it would be.





	Left of Childhood

**Author's Note:**

> More of Built From Ashes is coming soon, don't worry. Just had to bang out a couple of one-shots that have been on my mind first.

When it’s over, when the case is all closed up and done, it sure doesn’t feel like it’s over.

The big bad is just a traumatized girl trying to get revenge on the monster that killed her sister and left her alone in the dark.

There’s no justice for the victims, because its not like they can gank said traumatized girl over the fate of some imaginary friends. Except they weren’t imaginary, they were as real as anyone, which means they deserve justice they’ll never get.

And somewhere out there, there’s another sad, lonely little girl who’ll live forever with the horrific sight of her murdered best friend. A friend no one will ever believe existed in the first place.

All things considered, it’s not the most satisfying wrap-up they’ve ever had. Then again, Dean’s not sure he knows what a satisfying conclusion to any part of their fucked up lives would look like. Might not recognize one even if he saw it.

It makes him wonder.

Maybe happy endings are real. Maybe it just takes a special kind of person to see them.

Just like apparently it takes a special kind of kid to see a zanna.

And ain’t that just a kick in the nads. It’s what his thoughts keep cycling back to, round and round like garbage circling the drain. He’s full of restless energy, still has that buzz, that vibration of thwarted adrenaline pumping under his skin. Seeking an outlet, seeking a target, because for him that primal human fight or flight response has only ever meant fight. Crank up the volume, dig down deep in that well of anger and resentment and violence churning like primordial ooze, like the chaos that birthed all monsters. That bottomless pit that bonds him to the Darkness. Look down the barrel, sight down the scope, ready, aim, pull the trigger. Unleash the beast. Let ‘er rip.

Except there’s no bullseye here, no target in view. He summoned his hounds with the promise of blood, of a hunt, and they won’t come to heel until he delivers. So they run about unchecked; their baying are his nerves still standing on end, their raised haunches are his muscles still coiled and waiting to pounce.

He finds Sully without even meaning to, but that’s not that surprising. Sammy’s his magnetic north, the lodestone that orients his compass. Anyone that has any kind of a hold on Sam, can shift his trajectory, Dean can find in turn. Sully has a hold on Sam, ergo Dean can find Sully. Dean can find Sully, ergo, Sully has a hold on Sam.

And yes, he knows how to fucking use ergo in a sentence.

Sully’s not happy to see him, doesn’t like him all that much, Dean is pretty sure. Whatthefuckever. He’s used to Sam’s other friends not liking him all that much. Old news. The little dude’s nervous at their close proximity, shifting anxiously, eyes darting around like he’s looking for someone to come rescue him, which just pisses Dean off even more. He’s a monster, yeah, okay, he knows that, he’s always known that, because it takes a monster to see the monsters, takes teeth to kill things with teeth. Like calls to like. But he’s a monster on a leash, he’s tame, domesticated; not mindless, he has purpose. He’s not going to hurt the little fucker, he just wants to talk. He just wants answers.

He wants to know what secrets he and Sammy shared. Wants to know what his brother told to him that he couldn’t tell to Dean. He wants to know why Sammy needed this douche at all. It’s proprietary, this snarl that’s been building inside him ever since Sully popped (back) into their lives. It’s possessive, its all the things Sam accuses Dean of being and all the things Dean doesn’t want to be. It’s not like he wants to be his brother’s whole world, it’s not that he doesn’t want Sam to have other friends, other family, other people besides just him.

It’s not that. It’s not.

It’s that Sully called Sam _lost_. He said zanna appear to lost children to guide them, to help them, but what the fuck does that even mean because Sammy was never lost. Sam is Dean’s compass, but Dean is Sam’s, right? Right? How could he have ever been lost when Dean was right there beside him, the whole time? He never left Sam, never, not once, at least not whenever he had a choice, and even when someone or something outside his control, like Dad or a hunt took him away, he always came running back just as fast as he could. He made damn sure Sammy never knew what it felt like to be alone, to be abandoned, he dedicated his entire goddamn life to making abso-fucking-lutely sure that he’d always be there for his brother when he needed him. He’d missed tests, he’d skipped dates, he’d dropped out of school, hell he fucking gave up Lisa and Ben to stay by his brother’s side, so where the fuck did this little prick get off saying shit like Sammy was lost?

Dean opens his mouth to say all of that, to demand answers, an explanation.

Except.

Except, that’s not what comes out.

“So what’s so special about Sammy? How come he rated getting one of you guys and I didn’t?”

And holy shit, that is so not what he wanted to ask, wanted to know, it isn’t even…fuck, that makes it sound like he's jealous of his kid brother, jealous of him and his imaginary friend and that is so far out of left field it isn’t even funny. Except Sully doesn’t say anything, just stares back at him with wide eyes that hold a glint of something he swears looks a lot like guilt and Dean’s mouth keeps moving, words keep falling out.

“I mean, don’t get me wrong, Grown-Ass Me thinks Mullet Dude is a massive tool, but man, when I was nine, I would’ve eaten up that air guitar shit of his with a spoon. So what’s the deal? You said you guys help out kids who are lost, so, what? Sammy was lost, but I wasn’t? I didn’t need your help?”

Sully shakes his head, solemn and quiet.

“It wasn’t that.”

“Then what was the problem?” Dean hurls the question like a javelin shaped accusation. Feels no satisfaction when it hits home, the zanna flinching at the impact. He hates how fucking needy it sounds, hates that he’s in full control of his motor mouth once more and that last part was all him. Hates that goddamn look in the little prick’s eyes because its looking less and less like guilt now and a lot more like pity.

“The problem is you were never a child,” Sully says. And gravitas isn’t a word that should apply to a short little port-bellied spirit wearing stripes, but it fits all the same. “Not really. Not in any of the ways that matter.”

And Dean falls silent then, because there’s really not a whole lot he can think to say to that.

“Right.” He bobs his head awkwardly. Barks out the word like a gruff dismissal. Of Sully, of his words, of their truth, any of it, all of it, whatever. He has a headache. He’s fucking sick of this imaginary friend crap. He’s done. “Okay then. Good talk.”

He walks away, because hey, cool beans, apparently he does know how to access the flight option off the fight or flight program menu after all.

Sully doesn’t follow.

But then, why would he? Dean isn’t his responsibility. Had never been his responsibility. Never been anyone’s really, and isn’t that the whole problem?

He’s never thought it was a problem before, never thought much about it at all, to be honest. Introspection is Sam’s shtick. He has more important things to worry about. But he’s thinking about it now, and it takes him until he’s back in the Impala, back in the driver’s seat to come up with all the things he should have said after that shithead’s little pronouncement.

Because he’d had a fucking childhood, thank you ever so goddamn much. Sure, it’d been a shitty, unconventional one, but it had been there. It had been his. It mattered. It isn’t like he has no good memories, it isn’t like it was fourteen years between ages four and eighteen where nothing good ever happened. Dad hadn’t done much to merit the name, but even he had found time to take his boys to some small-town wrestling matches, and Dean had loved that shit. Those were some of the best times of his life. He can still remember them vividly. Sitting in the cheap seats, sandwiched between his dad and his brother, mouth full of stale popcorn and licorice as he cheered wildly, copying the expressions on his dad’s face even when he didn’t have a clue what was happening himself.

And Dean’s hounds are still loose and their cage doors are still open and a stray, treacherous thought slips through under the wire. Sneaks past his defenses, catches him unawares. And it hits him then, another memory, of him sulking while Dad tried to bundle him and Sam up in the car and drive off to one of those matches. It hadn’t been Dad taking his boys to watch wrestling so much as it had been Dad taking him with them when he went. There’d been no more discussion of that then there’d been of training to hunt or taking care of Sam. John Winchester liked wrestling, of course his sons would like it too.

And it occurs to him then, in that dull, distant sort of way that promises Dean he can have this epiphany without it leaving too much of an impression, that he won’t be unable to lock it up and shut it away - it occurs to him then, that if Mom had lived, if she’d never died, they wouldn’t have gone to small-town wrestling matches as a family. Mom had been a badass, she was a hunter’s daughter, she knew all the words to every Led Zeppelin song, she had great taste in cars. But he doesn’t think she’d have been a fan of dragging them off to watch men in tights beat each other up. She probably would have sat them all down and asked her boys what they wanted to do instead.

Dean’s aware that’s how its supposed to work. He isn’t so far removed from normal that he hadn’t been able to figure out from watching TV and classmates that in regular families, that was how things worked - at least some of the time. It’s why he’d taught himself to ask Sam what he wanted. Only reason he’d stopped was because the things his brother asked for, he couldn’t give him.

Like marshmallow nachos.

He wonders then, if a zanna had appeared to him, what kind of things would Dean have asked him for? What would he like if he weren’t just John Winchester’s shadow and Sam Winchester’s guardian? What would he have wanted, back when he was still young enough to occasionally want things even when he knew he wouldn’t get them? When he was still young enough to want more?

Because he might not have had a childhood, okay fine, whatever. But he’d still been a child, no matter what anyone fucking said.

It isn’t his fault no one else had ever agreed.

“Why marshmallow nachos?” Dean asks abruptly. They’re back on the road now, only car on the highway as far as his headlights show. Next town is a good ninety miles. Long drive. Plenty of time to talk. He regrets opening his mouth the second it happens.

Thank God for little brothers who read mockery into a question like that, instead of an open invitation to Feelings. Never let it be said that there’s no method to Dean’s usual routine as an asshat. His track record has served him well, yet again.

“I don’t know, Dean, maybe because I was nine?” Sam sighs gustily, all put upon airs. “It’s not like you would have come up with anything better when you were nine.”

“Yeah, yeah,” he says vaguely. He searches for an example to tack onto the end of that. Something off the wall, something whimsical. A peace offering to mitigate the mood he’s just dragged into the car, let his brother know he hadn’t been trying to judge without letting on to where the question had really come from. He doesn’t want to fight. Not now, anyway. Not anymore.

Not with Sam.

Problem is, he can’t come up with anything. Only special treat he remembers wanting to eat when he was nine is the last bowl of Lucky Charms.

He’s pretty sure that’s not the same thing.

Dean cranks up the volume and sings along to Eric Clapton instead. The guitar solo rings in his ears, solid, steady, real.

He was right. This is better anyway.


End file.
